Rebirth of a Queen
by LoC978
Summary: No good at taglines. Here's my introductory OC fic: A 6 year old experimental cyborg and a middle aged bachelor with a limp trying to survive in Section 2. Chapter 5 is finally up! ... Not that it's spectacular or anything...
1. Introduction

_Disclaimer: There are very few things in this world that I own. Gunslinger Girl is not one of them._

**Rebirth of a Queen**

a Gunslinger Girl fanfiction by LoC978

**Introduction: Two Guys, a Girl, an Intensive Care Unit... and a Cyborg.**

The lobby was pretty much what she expected. Sterile. All White: walls, floor, lights. The only color in the room seemed to come in through the windows that covered most of the north and south walls. Stretching from perhaps a meter off the floor to a few centimeters under the 3+ meter high ceiling, they let in the fading orange sunlight of an autumn sunset. The ticking of a round clock that hung over the double doors on the west wall was nearly the only sound. Seated in a chair on the west wall was a tall, bored looking blond man in an expensive black suit. He exhaled sharply through his nostrils as the receptionist across the room began typing.

One of the west doors opened, and a man in a white lab coat walked briskly through the door. He seemed to be engrossed in the contents of a clipboard he held in his left hand. He was muttering under his breath. Something about the 'alveolar epithelium'. The little girl with short blond hair in the center of the room made a note of the term, meaning to look it up later. The man in the lab coat pushed through the east doors without slowing his stride. The receptionist's phone rang quietly...

The blond man shifted in his seat slightly, and the girl quickly checked every entrance, doors, windows, even the ventilation shaft above the receptionist's desk. The man sighed impatiently, checking his watch. He began tapping his foot. The girl relaxed again, and began listening to the receptionist repeat back someone's address.

One of the west doors opened again, this time admitting a man of middling height with a barrel chest and his shoulder-length brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. A pair of frameless glasses rested upon his square-jawed, clean shaven face. He took a step in, and faced the seated man. He seemed to be favoring his right leg slightly.

"Good evening, Mr. Gallo," said the blond man, rising from his seat and offering his hand.

"Evening, Jean," the bespectacled man replied, shaking the offered hand firmly, "I know it's been awhile, but, could we dispense with the formality please? It makes my skin crawl."

Jean actually smiled a little. "Sure, Orazio. Whatever you're most comfortable with."

The man called Orazio squatted down and faced the girl, offering his hand to her. "You must be Rico. It's an honor to finally meet you. I've heard some impressive things about you..."

The little girl shook his hand, and took note of how uncomfortable he looked in a black Armani suit that was almost identical to Jean's. Like a small brown bear stuffed into a penguin skin. She grinned suddenly at the mental image, trying to hold back a giggle.

Orazio stood back up with a slight grunt of effort as Jean drew a sheet of paper out from under his jacket.

"Here's the list you requested." Jean said.

Orazio took the paper and scanned it for a moment. "Ah, good... Hmm... Nothing about their condition here. Oh well. Let's start from the top."

"Alright. Follow me," Jean moved through the east doors, and down the hallway. Orazio and Rico followed.

* * *

"... victim of a hit-and-run. She has multiple fractures. We tried to locate her family, but she seems to be homeless," the doctor finished. 

Orazio looked down from the observatory to where the dark haired, skinny fifteen year old girl was resting peacefully. "She doesn't seem too terribly injured. Were there complications in the surgery or something?"

"No... But there will be permanent scarring, and she'll walk with a limp for the rest of her life."

"So will I," Orazio said. Then, to Jean, "Let's move on to the next."

* * *

"... the knife punctured her large intestines, but we managed to stabilize her. Her parents are American, and they live on a military base close to Napoli." 

The blond, 13 year old girl seemed to be a mass of bruises. It was difficult to tell what her face had looked like this morning.

"Have they been contacted?"

"We're having trouble reaching them, but we managed to contact a friend of theirs about an hour ago."

"And the girl, She'll pull through?"

"We're confident that her life is no longer in danger."

"Who's next on the list, Jean?"

* * *

Three stops later, Orazio and Jean stood with a short doctor in his late thirties. He appeared to be of middle-eastern descent. Rico appeared to be lost in the skeletal and muscular system charts on one of the walls. Jean could tell she wasn't. Just like he'd trained her. 

"Her left arm, leg, and clavicle are all shattered. Four ribs are broken. Her left lung collapsed, and she can't breathe without that respirator she's hooked to. I'm afraid the odds of her survival are slim, gentlemen," the doctor sighed heavily as he finished giving his report.

"Any family?" Orazio asked quietly.

"She's an only child, and her parents were murdered the night she went missing. That was three months ago. We haven't found any extended family, since the couple moved here from Ireland nine years ago," the doctor said.

"They became Italian citizens?" Jean sounded surprised.

"Indeed. The government accepted their application shortly after they arrived. It's not that hard to do," the Arab man smiled.

Orazio gazed down at the six year old, red haired victim. So much younger than the people he'd lost to terrorism. At least they'd gotten a shot at life. And most of them had died on their feet, fighting for what they believed in. His mouth tightened angrily. Al-Qaeda, Hezbollah, Padania... ideology aside, they were all the same to him. Linked by their preferred methods. Though it was probable she wouldn't appreciate it, this little girl would get her revenge. He crumpled up the paper full of incident reports Jean had given him.

"So, you've made your decision, then?" Jean asked.

Orazio nodded, then, turning to the doctor, "What's her name?"

"Giovanna Addison."


	2. Chapter 1: The Ridiculous Truth

_disclaimer: I don't own Gunslinger girl. Yu Aida does. I don't own a cherry-red, late model porsche. Giuseppe does. I don't own a Glock 33. Orazio does. But I own Orazio, and his little queen, too. (insert booming, evil laugh here)_

**Rebirth of a Queen**

a Gunslinger Girl Fanfiction by LoC978

**Chapter 1: The Ridiculous Truth**

The sky was clear, and the morning was cool. Bordering on cold, really, as autumn mornings tend to be. 'Brisk' is a term that could be used to describe it. A field mouse was feeling slightly chilled, thanks to the morning dew in the grass. He had just found a way to warm up, though, by climbing onto some rough, black rock that was already beginning to soak up the sun's rays. An odd, high-pitched rumbling began in the distance, and the mouse's ears perked up at it. The rumbling changed to a lower pitch, and grew louder... The rodent's view was filled with red, and then black. Then there was nothing.

José shifted into fourth gear, his cherry-red, late-model Porsche Boxster gliding smoothly along a road out of Rome, into the countryside. Perhaps he was speeding a bit, he thought, as a very small bump in the road registered through the car's sport-tuned suspension. But it was for a purpose. He didn't want to be late. Henrietta was _very_ sensitive about such things.

As he approached the gate into the Social Welfare Agency, José slowed down, and then stopped. Something was not right. There was an oddly shaped yellow junk heap blocking the entrance. José sat at a distance and observed it for a good thirty seconds, cracking his window a bit. The thing appeared to be an old Volkswagon bus, and it was making a god-awful racket, so he assumed it was at least running.

A bespectacled man with a ponytail who was wearing a black suit that was similar to the one José had on walked out of the guard shack by the gate... and actually _climbed into_ the yellow death-trap. He seemed perfectly confident that it wasn't going to explode, the fool. The racket from the yellow thing increased in volume, a puff of grey smoke shot out of the tailpipe, and it pulled into the Agency's parking lot. José pulled forward, and the guard waved him onward with his customary "Good morning, Mr. Croce".

The VW was in his parking spot... and it wasn't just canary yellow, it also had a black stripe down the side. Probably both sides. The stripe angled down approximately 30 degrees toward the front. The damn thing had a _racing stripe_! As he backed in next to it, the racket it was making finally ceased. The ponytailed man and José stepped out of their respective vehicles almost simultaneously, and walked out toward the entrance into the SWA's dormitory section.

Four-eyes stopped his limping gait and offered his hand to José. "Morning, Giuseppe," he said, "You don't remember me, do you? It has been awhile, and I'm not in uniform anymore, though. I'm Orazio Gallo. We fought together a few years back."

José shook the man's hand, limply at first, then firm, then with both of his hands as he recalled.

"Orazio... from the R.I.A.M.! Last time I saw you, they were loading you back onto your own helicopter, minus the back of your right leg! How is it you can still walk?"

"The usual. Reconstructive surgery, physical therapy, a whole lot of pain," Orazio grimaced, "We'd better hurry up. You've got a girl to train, and I've got one to name."

"Heh. You're the new handler, huh? Well, I'll see you around, then. Might want to buy a car when you get paid, though!"

With that, they parted ways. Orazio shook his head with amusement. He had a car, it just wasn't as practical or discreet as the VW. As he made his way along the dormitory walkway toward the observation room, He wondered how the girl once known as Giovanna would react to what he had to tell her... and how she'd react to waking up with what could be considered a form of drug-induced amnesia. His fingers played along the side of the empty pistol in his jacket pocket as he opened the door.

A slender woman in a dark suit (similar to his; he was starting to feel like he was in uniform again) with short brown hair sat in front of him. He was facing her right side, and in front of her was a computer. Beyond her was a room. The plastic fern in a pot hanging from the ceiling only enhanced its Spartan quality. There was a tiny, white bed (containing a tiny, freckled, six-year-old girl with her red-orange hair cut at shoulder length), a wooden table, white walls, and an open window with white curtains.

"Good morning, Orazio. I'm Ferro," The woman said, "Did you decide on a name for her yet?"

"Guinevere... and, good morning, Ferro. Pleased to meet you."

Ferro smirked as she entered the name, "Should I call you Arthur, or Lancelot?"

Orazio chuckled, "Neither. But you can call me Merlin, if you want."

The newly-named Guinevere stirred slightly in her bed. Both adults quieted and turned their heads to watch her. The little girl rolled out of the bed, limbs flailing wildly. The bed sheets went with her, and she scooted backwards across the floor. The back of her head make a solid _thunk_ when it hit the one-way mirror. She seemed to be trying to look every direction at once, and she was hyperventilating.

"Never seen one do _that_ before," Ferro commented quietly.

Orazio hurriedly limped to the room's entrance, and slowly opened the door.

* * *

The girl stared into the dead man's wide-open eyes, at the blood running out of the hole in his head, dribbling down the concrete... toward her face. She couldn't even scream, the pressure on her left side was so great. She tried to push the slab of concrete off of her again, and this time it gave way. She rolled to the right, but something was binding her limbs. She tried to crab-walk backwards, away from the carnage... 

_Thunk_

Her head hit something. She looked up. There was no concrete slab, no dead man. Just a bed. She looked down. She was tangled up in some bedsheets. She tried to slow her breathing, but the stark white room around her wouldn't allow it. She must be dead; this was purgatory.

The door to her left opened slowly, and she waited to see if it was the Grim Reaper, or God, or the Devil. It was a man in a suit, and he had a worried look on his bespectacled face.

But when her bright green eyes met his dark blue ones, he smiled. "Good morning," he said pleasantly, "My name is Orazio. Are you okay? That must've been one scary dream you were having."

The girl reflexively opened her mouth, intending to give her name and ask where she was... but she couldn't, for the life of her, recall her name. The sound that escaped her could be described as a 'confused groan'. Her mouth snapped shut, and she started again.

"Wh... What's my name, Mr. Orazio?" She asked in precise, book-learned Italian.

"Guinevere," He answered.

She stood up and walked back to the bed, carrying the sheets with her. Then she gathered them up, and put them back on it.

"Where am I?" Guinevere said, after a short pause.

"You're at the Social Welfare Agency," Orazio paused, pulled in a deep breath, "I'm to be your guardian, your... handler."

"Handler?" The nightgown-clad girl tilted her head to the side with a quizzical expression, "Then what am I to be?"

"A..." Another deep breath. "A cyborg. A cyborg assassin."

She giggled. He pulled the pistol from his pocket, along with its technical manual. Her expression melted into a serious frown.

"I'm serious. This is a Glock 33. It's a sub-compact pistol, so it should fit into your hand. It fires .357 SIG rounds, and I'm going to teach you to use it," Orazio sighed heavily, and then finished with, "I'm sorry."


	3. Chapter 2: Normalcy Redefined

_Disclaimer: I don't own Gunslinger Girl. Yu Aida does. I don't own a pink, pleated skirt (Anymore. That phase is SO over). Guinevere does. I own her and Orazio, though. But for some reason, I keep letting Orazio borrow the leather jacket I bought in Firenze. Softest.Slave-owner.Ever._

_a/n: A note on timeline: I've left it relatively vague on purpose. This all takes place some time after Elsa's death, but before the addition of Petra\Alessandro.__ Special thanks to Danjo3 for the review of Chapter 1. It made me rethink Guinevere's character a bit, and I think she's more of a whole person now because of it._

**Rebirth of a Queen**

A Gunslinger Girl fanfiction by LoC978

**Chapter 2: Normalcy Redefined**

She could see her breath in the crisp, morning air. It was only a few degrees above freezing outside, and the sun hadn't yet poked its head up over the horizon. The girl approached a wooden door, turned the knob. It opened almost noiselessly, revealing a locker room stretching away to the right, with nothing but a concrete wall to the left. Another doorway stood at the opposite end of the room. She was expecting to hear gunfire coming from inside that doorway. All she heard was the sound of wood being dragged across concrete, followed by a quiet voice. She couldn't quite make out what was being said.

"Rico, go get your ammunition," Jean said behind her. He had an all-too-familiar, impatient edge to his voice.

"Yes sir," Rico moved to one of the lockers and retrieved a box of 9mm ball ammunition for her CZ-75B, then followed Jean into the indoor shooting range.

Inside, the new girl, the redhead who'd only been with the agency four days, was standing in the firing position of one of the lanes. On a _wooden box, _of all things. The concrete was still chest-high to her, but at least she had room enough to fire her Glock 33. Her handler was standing over her, correcting the way she held the tiny weapon, reminding her that it was going to be loud, and the recoil was going to be strong. The diminutive redhead sighted down the barrel, a look of intense concentration on her face. She pulled the trigger, far too abruptly. The noise was deafening to anyone not wearing proper protection. It startled the six-year-old into letting go of the gun, despite her handler's warning.

Recoil sent the little pistol sailing past her face, and it arced toward the ground. Jean leaned forward in his seat, caught it with his left hand, and passed it back to the new handler.

"Rico, quit gawking and start practicing," was all he said.

* * *

The four exited the range forty-five minutes later, Rico holding a paper target that seemed to be missing a majority of its head. It had a bullet to its heart, as well. That one was Guinevere's. _Her_ target, on the other hand, just had a gut wound and hole in its shoulder. It figured that her only really good shot had been in Rico's target, which she hadn't even been aiming for. She still wasn't sure how she'd managed _that_ one. 

"Cheer up, Gwen. It was your first time actually firing. You'll get better," Orazio said. Guinevere couldn't bring herself to respond.

"At least you managed to hold onto it after the first one!" Rico chimed in cheerfully. She actually sounded like that was something to be proud of.

"It's my fault, really," Orazio said. That brought a sharp glance from Jean, for some reason, "The three fifty seven was a bad idea for a first gun. I'll get you a nine millimeter for tomorrow's practice."

Guinevere was silent as she climbed into the VW's passenger seat. Its old, four cylinder engine sputtered to life, and Orazio began driving back toward the Agency's dorms. Guinevere fussed with her stupid pink skirt, plucked at the frilly edges of her cutesy white blouse. She wished for something simpler, more practical. Like the pants, shirt, and jacket that Rico tended to wear.

Guinevere knew she was just trying to distract herself. She had failed today; but she refused to let the tears come. He couldn't see anymore weakness from her. She balled up her hands in her lap, and stared at her tiny fists. They looked so fragile, so ineffective...

* * *

Triela watched the diminutive redhead walk out of the classroom. The door shut quietly behind her. The blond girl shook her head in amazement. This new girl was almost as withdrawn and quiet as the rest had been when they arrived, but... she wasn't spaced-out the way they had been. Triela knew that _she_ had walked around in a daze for the first couple weeks. Not even Claes had started paying attention in class right away. This little Guinevere, though... she only had to hear something once, even though it was only her first day out of the observation ward. She absorbed information like a sponge, the little brainiac. Triela sighed. The little girl had probably been a genius even before she was conditioned. She _was_ bilingual already, after all. Hopefully her handler wasn't a total douche-bag. The last thing they needed was a new, improved Elsa. 

Hillshire gently squeezed her shoulder on his way to the door, as if he was telling her not to worry about it. No... that was wrong. Hillshire's about as insightful as a pile of beans. He probably just thought she was having trouble comprehending his physics lesson. Triela stuck her tongue out at his retreating back, and then followed him out the door.

* * *

Back in her room, Triela noticed someone was conspicuously absent from tea-time. Claes had made her favorite cakes, too. 

"José didn't take Henrietta out somewhere again, did he?" Triela asked.

Claes, reading as always, just shrugged. Rico shook her head, took a sip of tea.

"She was headed toward the new girl's room, last time I saw her," She said.

* * *

She knocked on the door for a third time. Finally, a muffled, "Just a minute, please!" came from inside. A few moments later, the door opened, revealing a red-eyed Guinevere. Her hair was a tangled mess, as were the sheets on her bed. "Yes?" the six-year-old said, sniffling a little. She was squinting as she looked up into the brown-haired girl's face; it was a full head above her own, and framed by the noonday sun. 

"Um..." Henrietta gripped the front of her grey, school uniform skirt nervously; she was beginning to have second thoughts. She plowed onward, regardless.

"W... we have a little tea party every day, about this time. Would you like to come? My name is Henrietta, by the way."

"I, um... I'm Gwen. A tea party? That sounds nice. I'd like to come. Just let me..." Guinevere rushed back inside, came back out with a comb. She began furiously pulling the tangles out of her hair.

Henrietta put a hand on Guinevere's shoulder as they began walking toward Claes and Triela's room, "You don't have to try to impress anyone, Gwen... and I'm sure Triela would love the opportunity to brush your hair for you, if you're comfortable with that... we're... that is, we try to be kind of like sisters here."

Guinevere stopped trying to comb out her hair. Good. It looked painful, as she had pulled out quite a bit of it.

Henrietta stopped in front of one of the doors, knocked three times. Gwen stopped with her.

"Come in!" Triela's voice called from inside.

Henrietta opened the door, ushering Guinevere inside. The redhead just stood there, a comb stuck in the tangled mess on top of her head, and gripped her pink, pleated skirt.

"Everyone, this is Gwen," Henrietta said, "Gwen, this is Triela, Rico, and Claes." She gestured toward each of them respectively with an open hand.

"Hello, Gwen. I'm glad you could join us," Triela said, getting out two more cups and saucers from a shelf behind her.

Henrietta led Guinevere to the empty seat, and took one from against the wall for herself.

Three... Two... One...

"... Gwen, would you mind if I brushed your hair?" Triela asked, pouring tea for the two newcomers, "That comb doesn't look very comfortable."

Henrietta grinned, trying very hard not to giggle.

* * *

The sun was just setting when the old, American muscle car pulled up to the Agency's front gate. The dark green car looked like it belonged in one of those vintage car shows, and its low, rumbling idle sounded like something out of a racing video game. José shook his head as he climbed into his Porsche. That _had_ to be Orazio's other car. The crazy bastard. 

Orazio waved to José as the red sports car drove out the gate, and then pulled himself out of his 2-door, 1967 Buick Riviera. In place of his Armani suit, he was wearing black slacks, a grey shirt, and a dark brown leather jacket.

"I look like I'm trying to pick up a woman, don't I?" he muttered to himself, pulling a shopping bag and a black fiberglass cane from the back seat. In truth, he had been, about two hours ago. He even played the 'single father' card when she asked him why he was buying little girl's dresses. Orazio sighed as he closed the car door. He was _not_ the smoothest cripple ever to limp around on this green Earth.

Guinevere's door was shut, and the lights were off. He knocked anyway.

"Gwen? You in there?" he called out in a somewhat loud voice.

"Coming, Mr. Orazio!" her voice sounded from somewhere out in the courtyard. The sound of tiny feet on pavement approached from his right. Even in the fading light, Orazio could see that her pink dress and white blouse were pretty much ruined. There were dirt and grass stains all over them, and they were torn in at least four places that he could see. Gwen was cradling something in both hands. A baby bird...

She followed his gaze. Luckily, her cheeks were already red from the chilly wind. The sunset was probably hiding that, anyway...

"He... uh, he broke his wing," the little girl said, holding the bird up, "Can I keep him? Just 'till he gets better?"

Orazio was grinning like a fool. This was just too damn cute.

"Sure, Gwen," he said, trying to sound serious and fatherly, "But do you know how to care for him?"

"Claes is letting me borrow a veterinary textbook about birds. I know I can make him better!"

Orazio led her into her room, turned on the light, and set the shopping bag on the table inside.

"Well, let's see what the book says we should do first..." he said, opening the veterinary text that had been laying on one of the chairs. The 9mm Glock 26, dresses, and long coat in the shopping bag were forgotten. At least for the moment.


	4. Chapter 3: Recoiling From the Doctor

_disclaimer: I don't own Gunslinger Girl. Yu Aida does. I don't own a beautifully restored 1967 Buick Riviera. I just wish I did. I do own Orazio and Guinevere, but Orazio still won't let me drive his car..._

_a/n: I make mention in this story of a tactic called 'Slicing the Pie'. For detailed info on it, run a google search on it. There should be a site called officer(dot)com in the list. I also mentioned a method of reflexive shooting called 'double-tapping'. It's pretty much what it sounds like. Shooting twice at a target in rapid succession with a semi-automatic._

**Rebirth of a Queen**

A Gunslinger Girl fan fiction by LoC978

**Chapter 3: Recoiling From the Doctor**

She inhaled deeply, and let it out in a sigh. The little girl hadn't smelled gunpowder in over three weeks, except on her friends. Now if she could just walk to the firing line without limping... it still hurt to walk, but not _too_ much. She started walking to the lane next to where Triela was practicing with her G3 assault rifle. Rico was further down the line, being scolded by Jean. She was holding her 70/90 carbine tight against her chest, muzzle toward the hard-packed dirt she stood on. When she arrived at her lane, the girl brushed a stray lock of her black hair aside, opened her weapon case, and set about assembling her Steyr Aug assault rifle. It took her nearly seven seconds; she was getting rusty.

Glancing at her handler to see if he'd noticed her fumbling, the girl spotted someone unfamiliar in the distance.

"Um, Marco?" she began, tentatively.

"Yes, Angelica?"

The girl pointed, asking, "Who's she?"

Marco turned his head to look.

"Oh, that's the new cyborg. I think her name's... um... Gwynne... maybe," he replied uncertainly.

Angelica began absently loading a magazine, while studying the tiny redheaded girl.

Guinevere was standing at the entrance to the room-by-room pop-up target course. She was wearing a knee-length, bright yellow skirt, sky blue blouse, and pink running shoes. Combining that with her flame-red ponytail and pale skin, the tiny girl was an eye-jarring riot of colors. The only subdued thing about her was the dark grey pistol she held in both hands.

The red haired girl tilted her head slightly, nodded, and took off running through the doorway. Marco shook his head, muttering something about 'not ready'. Angelica flinched and turned quickly back to her target. She then loaded her rifle, and began firing. The target's head was soon missing its center.

* * *

"There's no way she's ready for this yet," Hillshire muttered. 

He, Orazio, and Chief Lorenzo sat in the range's observation room. Every intersection of the pop-up target course was visible on the black-and-white monitors that lined one wall.

"I've been led to believe that this new cyborg is progressing faster than any we've yet seen," Lorenzo said, looking to Orazio, as if for confirmation.

Orazio cleared his throat, searching for the right words.

After a short pause, he said, "From what I've heard about the other girls, Chief... uh... Gwen pretty much just got used to her body and the conditioning a bit faster. Her tactical and weapons skills are still fairly elementary."

Lorenzo grunted, and signaled for Hillshire to start it.

Hillshire lifted a small, two-way radio in front of his mouth. Pressing a button on its side, he said, "Begin in five... four... three... two... one... go!"

Lorenzo pressed a button on his watch.

Guinevere stalked purposefully through the first room of the course. No targets presented themselves. She then approached the first doorway, drew a deep breath, and hurled herself through it. The doorway led into a hallway that stretched away to her left. She rolled across it and came up on one knee, shoulder braced against the wall and gun at the ready. At least she was pointing the right direction.

"Have you been letting her play videogames?" Hillshire asked, deadpan.

Simultaneously, Lorenzo muttered, "At least she's fairly nimble..."

"I certainly didn't teach her _that_," Orazio said, frowning.

The little girl had made it to the end of the hallway, failing to shoot at a target that popped up on the other side of a window near her... on account of the window being above her line-of-sight. There was a doorway next to the window. She faced the corner of the doorway, sidestepping and slowly revealing what lay beyond it. 'Slicing the Pie', good. She remembered her training that time. Orazio nodded, half-smiled, and leaned back in his seat. The Glock in Gwen's hands roared twice, shooting out a flame twice as long as the barrel. Lorenzo and Hillshire both flinched a little. The first round struck her target in the throat; the second sailed over its head and made a sizeable hole in the concrete wall.

"That's a big round for such a tiny gun..." Hillshire said.

Orazio shrugged. "She begged me to let her use it."

"Hard to resist, eh?" Hillshire cracked a small smile.

"Yup. She's just too damned cute to refuse. Well, simple things like that, anyway," Orazio smiled like a proud father.

Lorenzo was silently watching the screens as Gwen gained speed and confidence. Each time she fired, she tried to double-tap. Unfortunately, the recoil of her pistol sent her second bullet a bit too far off the first one. Still, no 'enemy' target escaped a kill shot, and no 'innocent' or 'friendly' target was fired upon. Her reloading was fast and efficient. Her tactics were basic, but effective; at least after that fiasco at the first intersection. As she exited the course, Lorenzo pushed a button on his watch.

"Six seconds over the standard. Not bad for her first run-through," He said.

"Course complete. Proceed to the observation room for debriefing," Hillshire said into the radio. Then he stood up. "Please excuse me, Orazio, Chief. I have to go see to Triela. Try to get your girl used to that recoil, Orazio."

* * *

Guinevere spotted Orazio and an older man coming out of the observation room as she rounded the corner of the walled-in pop-up course at a jog. She picked up her pace, and then slowed to a halt when she was approximately a meter away. The six-year-old looked at the ground with a guilty expression, and began breaking up the dirt under her with her left foot as Orazio approached her. He reached down, gripped her under the arms. Gwen let out a surprised little squeak as she was lifted clear of the ground and swung in a circle, and then she laughed as she was tossed up into the air. Orazio caught his tiny ward and set her back on the ground. 

"Nice job, Gwen. You've got the basics down pretty good," he said, playfully tugging on her ponytail. She swatted half-heartedly at his hand, suddenly looking crestfallen again.

"But I... I failed! I was six-point-two-four seconds too slow, and I only fired with sixty-four-point-five-eight-three percent accuracy..." unshed tears glistened in her eyes, but she shook her head violently to clear them. Orazio still marveled at how she never cried; the computer-like calculations, he was used to. José had told him that Henrietta cried just like any other little girl...

Lorenzo was just staring at her. Finally, he seemed to snap out of a trance. In an incredulous tone, he said, "What on _Earth_ is she wearing, Orazio?"

"She... uh... that is... I usually have her change... um..." Orazio cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and continued, "She's always dressed in something like this when I arrive, Chief. But I was running late this morning, so I just left it alone. Sorry."

Guinevere's lower lip was sticking out in a little pout, and she was glaring at her handler. "You always make me wear _boring_ colors. These are prettier!" She briefly stuck out her tongue; she was still pouting.

Orazio chuckled, and Lorenzo actually smiled a little. So, the old bastard was part human after all. Sort of like Jean, really.

"I'll see you at three, Orazio. In my office. We have something to discuss."

With that, Lorenzo walked off toward the parking lot; presumably to his car. Come to think of it, Orazio had no idea which one that was.

"Well, can't stand around here all morning. Let's go see if we can't get you used to that three-fifty-seven, eh, little Guinevere?" he said, after a short pause.

She just made a _hmph_ sound and began walking out to a firing lane where a box of her .357 SIG rounds lay. She was loading her pistol with what she had left on her as she walked.

"Ah, the silent treatment, I see," he said. If she had been a cat, she would have had her tail stiffly in the air. Few things are as cute as an indignant six-year-old.

Orazio just _had_ to barb her one more time. It would be a crime not to. "I suppose there are worse fates," he commented.

She glared at him over her shoulder. He stuck his tongue out at her.

* * *

Gwen stared dejectedly into her tea, swirling it around with a finger. 

"He really didn't bother teaching you any manners, did he?" Triela murmured. She gently grasped the little girl's hand and wiped her finger off with a napkin.

"I... uh, sorry," was all the six-year-old said.

Claes looked up from her book. "Have you considered just _telling_ him you don't like to wear dresses?"

"But... he _has_ to know, by now! No one in their right mind could call that color combination _pretty_!" Guinevere protested.

Claes shook her head with a thoughtful expression. "Except, perhaps, a small child who likes bright colors."

"He's a male adult, Gwen. That term is synonymous with 'blind idiot'. You're going to have to tell him how it is bluntly. That's all they ever understand," Triela was staring off at nothing as she said the last part, a fond smile on her face.

* * *

"You wanted to see me, Chief?" Orazio said as he closed the office door behind him. 

"Yes," Lorenzo said, "Please, take a seat."

There were two men in lab coats standing behind him. Orazio recognized Dr. Bianchi, but the man with thick glasses and chin-length brown hair worn parted in the middle was new to him. As Orazio sat down, the unfamiliar man spoke.

"My name is Dr. Gilliani. I'm in charge of R&D for the cybernetic implants. I'm told the new cyborg is having trouble with the recoil of her weapon. This should not be."

Great, it was the bastard who did all the testing on Claes. Orazio choked back his rising anger. He hated discussing any of the girls as though they were simply pieces of hardware.

"It's a rather heavy recoil pistol, doctor. She's getting used to it though. She'll be able to fire it just like a nine-mil in a few more days."

"I don't care if it fires sixty caliber elephant gun rounds. She _should not_ have a problem with weapon recoil. But she does. Something is wrong with her implants," Gilliani sounded frustrated. Bianchi spoke up at this point.

"We need to take Guinevere into the testing facility, to see where her output is lacking," he held up a hand to forestall Orazio's protest, "You can accompany her if you like. She won't be damaged. We won't be testing her limits. Just average output."

Orazio sighed. "Fine," he said, "Can we just get it over with now, then? I have plans for tomorrow that I'd rather not change."

"Certainly," Gilliani sounded pleased. He must really _love_ his job. "We'll meet you at the facility in thirty minutes."

Orazio felt slightly sick as he went to find his little trainee.

* * *

"But there's no malfunction!" Gilliani said, slapping the report printout with the back of his hand. 

The new handler and his experimental cyborg had just left.

"I agree," Bianchi replied, "It seems her implants just aren't as powerful as the old ones, despite our best efforts."

"But... over _fifty_ percent weaker? That makes her less than twice as strong as a normal human!"

"Gilliani, we're talking about the _theoretical_ limit of an _adult_ human here. She's still many times stronger than you or I, her reflexes and hand-eye co-ordination are the best we've yet seen... and she's every bit as tough as the other cyborgs. Possibly tougher."

Gilliani sighed, seeming to deflate a bit. "I'll try to figure out what the problem is tomorrow. At least we have good test data now."

* * *

Peeko pecked at his birdseed, while Usef lapped water from his hamster-cage-mounted bottle. She had found the little brown squirrel out in the woods by the firing range, malnourished and with a broken back leg. Soon she'd have to let Usef go, as she couldn't provide enough space for him to stay healthy once he was fully recovered. Peeko, she had already released; but the sparrow wouldn't stay away long. She always left her window open for him, and he flew outside on most days. This was his home now, though. 

Orazio watched through the window as the little girl cleaned her second Glock. She was chattering at her bird and squirrel in a variety of languages: English, Arabic, a smattering of Spanish, French, German, and Russian. She even used a little of the Chinese she'd been learning recently. He shook his head with a grin as he turned toward the parking lot. José and Henrietta, just returning from their mission, passed him on the way. José waved, never really taking his attention off the girl. They seemed to be chatting about a museum in Firenze.

As he stowed his cane between the VW bus' seats, Orazio contemplated the things he'd ask Guinevere on their little outing tomorrow. The old engine rattled to life, and propelled its owner back toward his apartment.


	5. Chapter 4: Life is But a Dream

_Disclaimer: I don't own Gunslinger Girl, Yu Aida does. I don't own a cheap white suit, Orazio does (you'll see). I own Orazio, Guinevere, and my five Slavic extras, though._

**Rebirth of a Queen**

a Gunslinger Girl fanfiction by LoC978

**Chapter 4: Life is But a Dream**

A steady drizzle fell on the city of Torino, and it was steadily soaking through Pavel's jacket. It was really killing his buzz. His four friends didn't seem to notice the wet or the cold, though, drunk as they were. He continued down the street at a fast walk.

"'Ey, Pasha, what's the hurry?" Anton asked, slurring his words a bit.

"We got night shift," Pavel answered over his shoulder, without slowing, "And don't call me that."

_Not even my mother calls me that... Not anymore._

"Wha...? No way," Edvard said, "We had it on Monday!"

"...Wednesday, too. Tha's tonight, Edi," Denis said quietly.

"Fuck that!" Blaz shouted, fist in the air... and almost toppled forward onto the sidewalk. Anton caught him, and set him back upright.

"No, my friend; if we're late... _We'll_ be the ones who are as you say, _fucked,_" Pavel said.

That shut them up, thank god.

* * *

_Lorenzo called a meeting, and Orazio expected to simply sit and observe. That was the status quo, thus far. The gist of the meeting was this: Apparently a child slavery ring that NOCS thought they'd shut down in Lombardy was active again; this time in Piedmont. Members of this ring were generally easy to ID, as the gangsters involved were predominantly of Slavic descent, and very few of them were fluent in Italian. One small group of them had been spotted in Torino. What made this important to Section 2, though? According to a confession by a prisoner taken in Lombardy, they were paying Padania a lot of money for protection and armament. _

_The mission would be to capture and question at least one of them, kill them, and then dump their bodies on the opposite end of Italy's northern border, near Slovenia. Easy enough. This was the part where Lorenzo usually started assigning Fratello teams to certain duties... but the only handlers present were himself and Marco. Triela, Hillshire, Rico and Jean were on a higher profile mission; Henrietta and José were on a day trip into Rome. Worse yet, Angelica was in the hospital again... and so Orazio found himself saddled with planning and executing this wonderful escapade._

"There they are!" Guinevere whispered, bringing her handler's mind back to the present. She was pointing up the street, at people that only her enhanced eyes could see through the rain.

They had been watching these five men for three days now, and Gwen had been acting as translator. Her Russian vocabulary had improved dramatically... especially in terms of swearing. She seemed to enjoy swearing, Orazio thought, even if it was only to get on his nerves. For the last three nights, the men had hung out at the same bar, and taken the most direct route home. They seemed to be simple thugs, total amateurs.

Orazio nodded to Gwen, and gave her a gentle push out the door. Pulling up her hood, Gwen raced across the street. She crouched down next to the stairs leading up to the neighboring clothing shop's front door. She frowned as she attached a matte-black silencer to her 9mm Glock, and then tucked it away in the folds of her oversized brown coat.

Orazio tapped the tiny microphone concealed under his jacket twice, informing Marco and Georgio that the fun was about to begin. Leaving the door open, he stepped out into the street and snapped his umbrella open.

* * *

There was a spot of white light in the distance. Pavel could just barely make it out through the rain. 

"The hell is that...?" Anton said. He may as well have been reading Pavel's mind.

As his little group approached, Pavel could see that the light pooling in the street was coming from an open doorway. The dazzling whiteness of it was from a man in a cheap suit (complete with a white, wide-brimmed hat and gold-trimmed, white umbrella). The man smiled in a way that Pavel could only describe as 'greasy'.

_Fucking Italians..._

"Hello, my friends!" the man in white began in Italian, sounding like a car salesman, "You seem to be uncomfortable, and lacking female companionship. Come in, come in. We offer many comforts and pleasures... for _any_ taste."

"Uh... parlare... no... Italiano? ...Eh, Russo?" Pavel said, pretending not to understand.

_I hope this guy doesn't speak any Russian..._

"Ah. Apologies, comrade," the man said in broken Russian, "My Russian no strong. You want inside? Girls there for you."

"We really have no time, _comrade_," Pavel replied, irritated.

"Yeah, the boss wouldn't like it if we were late," Anton said quickly.

_Drunken idiot..._

Blaz spoke up suddenly, and quite loudly, "Fuck what Mr. Pashov would like! I want five of 'em!"

_Shit._

"Shut up, Blaz. We're leaving," Pavel tried to step around the man in white, who blocked him bodily.

"Please, comrade. Will no reconsider? Only wish improvement this night for you," he said in his pathetic Russian.

_That's it, time to scare this fool._

Pavel went for the revolver that was tucked into the back of his pants...

* * *

_"When you have time to observe the enemy, analyze them. Don't just see _what_ they do. See how they do it, and why. If a man has a limp like mine, He'll have inferior balance and mobility. If he's drunk, he'll have inferior judgment and co-ordination. Capitalize on any weakness you can."_

They were Orazio's words, of course. Guinevere was full of those. They rang true tonight, at least.

_The one in front... Pavel... he's too clearheaded... dangerous. The three in back are just there for safety in numbers, they won't know anything. That leaves number two... Anton. He's half-insensible, and seems to be in the leader's confidence._

Nodding to herself, Gwen took careful aim on Pavel's temple. After a few moments, he tried to step past Orazio, who moved to stay in front of him. When Pavel reached for his weapon, Guinevere squeezed the trigger of her Glock 26. The 9mm hollow-point round passed quietly from the end of her suppressor, and Pavel dropped to the pavement... well, most of him did. There was quite a bit of his blood, bone, and brain spread on the building beyond him. She followed up by shooting the three trailing men in rapid succession, a single bullet to each one's head. Anton was reaching for a weapon now, as was Orazio. Guinevere shot the thug once in the left calf-muscle and launched herself across the street at blinding speed.

Anton's legs made a satisfyingly loud _crunch_ when she impacted them. Using her momentum, she hurled him into the wall behind. Anton's head bounced off and he fell, landing face-first on the sidewalk. Guinevere sensed sudden movement to her right. She swung both her head and the pistol in her hand toward the movement... she'd never taken a close look at Denis, Edvard or Blaz when she was spying on them... so she didn't know which one this was, who looked into her eyes... blood streaming down the side of his head... and winked. Just like... he did... that time...

... _the sound of automatic weapons opening up echoed through the building. Both guards dived through the doorway, taking cover just as a spray of bullets ricocheted off the concrete doorframe. The girls all screamed as one._

_"Shut UP, you little whores!" their Italian guard shouted._

_The other one said something in that other, guttural language... and bolted for the window high on the wall opposite the door. He looked Giovanna in the eyes as he nimbly slung himself through the window. He winked just before disappearing from sight._

Something struck Giovanna in the forehead.

_Giovanna? Why do I... is that me?_

She slid backward on the pavement to the accompaniment of several small-caliber gunshots. The echoes died down and... Guinevere? Giovanna? Whichever she was, she just lay still. Rain and blood were stinging her eyes, so she closed them.

"Gwen? Gwen! Wake up, kid! Don't you die on me!"

Orazio was worried about her... but... who was she? Giovanna didn't know any Orazio... but Guinevere did. Should she answer him?

As he lifted her off the pavement, the little girl who couldn't decide which name was hers drifted off into dreamless, shock-induced unconsciousness.

* * *

Pavel fell to the ground, and Orazio reached into his jacket. These guys weren't nearly as drunk as usual; it was time for Plan B. The three thugs in the rear all hit the ground, almost simultaneously. 

A dark brown blur with a white-and-red top flew across the street just as Orazio cleared his Beretta PX4 from its underarm holster. Anton's legs made a sickening _crunch_, and one of his arms flailed out as he tried to keep his balance. It struck Orazio in the face. He stumbled backwards, dropping his umbrella. Orazio tried to plant his foot, but his leg chose that moment to collapse under him. The Beretta clattered into the street as his head struck the pavement.

_Shit!_

He crawled after the lost weapon, resolving to buy a backup as soon as he got home. Orazio grabbed his PX4, disengaged the safety, and rolled onto his back. He was greeted with the sight of Gwen staring down the barrel of ... Denis? Orazio thought it was that one... Denis' very large, nickel-plated revolver. Gwen's Glock was pointed at the man, but it soon fell from her suddenly nerveless fingers.

_What the hell?_

Both men stopped, watching the young girl as a look of horror came over her face, her hand rising as though to fend off an attacker in slow motion. Denis snapped out of his trance first. Unaware of Orazio's presence, he pulled the trigger of his .44 caliber Colt Python. A split second later, Orazio pulled the trigger of his .40 caliber Beretta PX4... 14 times... nothing happened on the 15th pull. The bolt was locked back... empty. Dropping his pistol in the street, Orazio climbed painfully to his feet and limped over to his fallen ward as quickly as he could.


	6. Chapter 5: Rediscovering the Home

_disclaimer: I don't own Gunslinger girl. Yu Aida does. I don't own a pizza van, Section 2 does. I do own Orazio and Guinevere, but Orazio owns more cool stuff than I ever will._

_author's notes: uh… sorry I'm late? I spent more time getting all my details straight than I did actually writing this time…_

**Rebirth of a Queen**

A Gunslinger Girl fan fiction by LoC978

**Chapter 5: Rediscovering the Home**

Hairbrush in hand, the blonde girl waited impatiently for the hospital elevator to reach the third floor. Her fellow passenger (of whom she had made a small observation project), normally a thoughtful sort, was displaying an unusual lack of expression. He was also attired formally today, black tie and all. She'd never thought him the type to play poker, but she was starting to rethink that conclusion (though that might be due to the James Bond movie marathon she'd caught Amadeo and Georgio watching at work a few weeks ago. She'd joined them, but only because they seemed uncomfortable with her presence). There was one other unusual thing about him this morning: he was carrying a black, rectangular instrument case with a fancy gold logo on the side proclaiming 'Yanagisawa'.

"So, you finally picked out an assault weapon for her? Or is it just an instrument?" she asked him, breaking the silence suddenly.

He practically jumped into the air in surprise, and she sighed irritably. The girl hated being ignored. Well, most of the time she hated it...

"T-Triela! Sorry, I didn't see you there..." he trailed off with a sheepish look and a shrug.

_Good, at least that was _some_ emotion._

Clearing her throat, she arched her eyebrows at him. The elevator made a _ding_ noise as it reached its destination. The doors slid open silently, revealing the starkly white third floor hallway. They both exited wordlessly.

"Yeah, it's a weapon case," he replied finally (and a bit lamely), as they started walking.

A few meters down the hallway, Triela stopped and knocked on a door.

"Come in!"

_Angie's voice sounds so weak today… _

"See ya later, Orazio!" Triela said with a forced smile as she ducked into the room, "Good morning, Angelica!"

* * *

Orazio waved to her, but Triela was already out of sight. A little way further down the hall, Orazio stopped in front of a door that was labeled simply '361'. Checking his watch, he sat down on a bench directly across from the door. 

_Thirty minutes early. For a 'good' habit, punctuality can sure be annoying._

As Orazio settled down to wait, he seized upon the memory of that night, trying to make sense of his young ward's actions…

-

_Orazio's back had a slight but painful spasm as he lifted his tiny cyborg's still form off the pavement. _

"_Thirty-eight kilos feels pretty heavy after an adrenaline rush..." he muttered._

_Guinevere's blood was still slowly pulsing out from where a .44 magnum slug had struck her, a few scant centimeters above her right eye. After laying her down gently in the back seat of Section 2's 'pizza van', Orazio wrapped her head with a white handkerchief pulled from his jacket pocket and went back out to help Marco haul in the bodies. Georgio had gone ahead to set up their extraction._

_As they lifted the grisly mess that was once the mortal shell of a thug named Denis, Orazio couldn't help but notice that he'd only scored eight hits on the man. He resolved to bring his own pistol more often to Guinevere's practice sessions._

_The other three dead ones were cleaner, appearing to have been shot execution-style (minus the powder burns of a point-blank shot, though). It was almost embarrassing how quickly his trainee's marksmanship had surpassed his own. Orazio briefly checked up on said trainee after he helped toss Pavel's corpse on top of the pile in the back of the van. She was still insensible, breathing slowly; the bleeding had stopped, though._

_Anton woke and screamed in agony as Orazio exited the van. Marco quickly put a stop to the screaming with strips torn from the screamer's own blood-spattered shirt. Gagged with cloth and thoroughly bound with zip-ties, Anton was hauled bodily into the van and set next to the child who had broken his legs (and nose. But one _could_ blame that on the cobblestones)._

_After securing the man with a seatbelt and more creatively applied zip-ties, Marco climbed into the front and started driving. Orazio took a seat between Guinevere and Anton, elevating the little girl's legs on his thigh in an attempt to treat shock. There were a few minutes of relative calm as the van made its way out of Torino. The calm ended when Guinevere woke, and sat up. She looked up at her handler in apparent confusion, mouthing the word 'daddy'. Anton noticed her, and amazingly managed to unbuckle his seatbelt. Panicking like a prey animal, Anton threw himself at the side door of the van… only to wind up tangled with the seatbelt he was secured to, hanging between the seat and the door. _

_Orazio reached over and pulled the seatbelt away from Anton's throat, which deposited the man on the van's floor. _

_Turning back to a now cowering Guinevere, Orazio offered her a small bottle of water taken from under the seat, and tried to ease the sudden tension a little, "Well. I can see why you chose this one, Gwen. He can't even out-fight a seatbelt."_

_Marco chuckled as he re-adjusted the rear-view mirror to keep an occasional eye on Anton, but Guinevere just shook her head at the offer of water and gazed out the window into near blackness. Orazio unscrewed the cap of the water bottle, wetting another handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket._

"_Here, at least let me clean that blood off your face," he said, reaching out with the damp cloth._

_She shook her head again. As Orazio's hand neared her face, one of her tiny hands held it away with an iron grip… her fingers encircling perhaps half of his wrist. Wordlessly, Orazio twisted his hand around so that the cloth rested in his open palm. Guinevere just shook her head again, and released his wrist. By then the van was approaching their designated emergency extraction point: an open field that belonged to the government. A helicopter was already waiting to pick them up._

_Two men in casual clothing exited the chopper. One was Georgio, and the other was a man of African descent that Orazio had recognized only vaguely. He learned later that the man's name was Nihad. Marco stopped the van a bit less than one hundred meters away. Orazio looked at Marco's reflection in the rear-view mirror questioningly. Guinevere, usually the most unflappable six-year-old on the planet, suddenly clung to his arm in apparent fear._

"_Go with her. I'm sure the three of us can handle this," Marco said, gesturing with contempt at Anton._

_After retrieving his white umbrella, Orazio opened the van's sliding side door and stepped outside; while Guinevere still clung to his left hand. His right leg trembled on the verge of collapse as he began limping toward the helicopter, and he began using the umbrella as a cane. _

"_Thanks, guys," Orazio said as they passed the two operatives. Georgio briefly gripped his shoulder; Nihad just nodded… and Guinevere clung to his hand tightly, eyeing the men with fearful suspicion._

_As Orazio tried to climb into the side of the helicopter, Guinevere froze, looking at the twirling blades above her. As she was still gripping his hand, and he was expecting her to follow him, Orazio lost his balance. Guinevere stumbled forward while Orazio fell backward, twisting to avoid falling on top of her. Letting go of his umbrella, Orazio planted his hand in the muddy grass, catching himself just short of a hard landing. His other hand was now twisted behind his back, still trapped in the grip of a dazed little cyborg._

"_Gwen?" he said, trying to keep the strain out of his voice, "Can I have my hand back?"_

_She seemed to come back to herself for the first time since being shot._

"_Oh!" she said, letting go of his hand, "I'm sorry, Orazio!"_

_While Orazio regained his footing, Guinevere busied herself with collecting his umbrella and trying in vain to brush the mud off of his jacket. Once they were strapped into the helicopter, she seemed to relax. She was asleep almost before Orazio shut the door._

_-_

Orazio's reverie was broken by a slight disturbance in the air. Manipulated by a tiny, hesitant, pale hand, the door across from him opened. Guinevere stepped through, closing the door behind her. She was wearing the dark green sweat suit that she normally conducted Close Quarters Combat training in, and looking down at her black running shoes. Her expression was heartbreakingly downcast.

Orazio quickly suppressed a sad, somewhat frustrated sigh.

_Every time... she's harder on herself than I could ever be._

Another memory popped up, this time unbidden:

"_Don't be too surprised if she's forgotten some things, Orazio. Memory dysfunction is a common side effect of the reconstruction process, especially with head wounds," the surgeon said quietly as he replaced the skin of Guinevere's scalp._

"How're ya feelin', Gwen?" Orazio asked with a good deal more cheer than he felt.

_Do you even remember being shot?_

… He was too afraid to ask.

"I... I-I'm f-fine now," She stammered back. If he hadn't known better, Orazio would've sworn she was on the verge of tears.

"Do you feel like you'll be ready to go back to work soon?" he queried, as gently as he could.

Guinevere's head snapped up at that, a look of slight shock her face.

"C-can I?" she asked.

He chuckled a little, "Of course! You're not even half-trained yet, kid. Speakin' of..."

Lifting the instrument case into his lap, Orazio unlatched and opened it up. Inside was an old, scratched-up, _mostly_ matte-black assault weapon.

"That's a Chang Feng submachine gun..." she said, and lifted the weapon out of the case at Orazio's prompting. She began examining it closely.

"The old DAP58 prototype..." she trailed off as she tested the magazine release and charging mechanisms.

_She sure has been studying Claes' books a lot… I wonder which one had _that_ little tidbit in it..._

"As you can see, it needs a little love to be useable. That'll give you a chance to become better acquainted with it," he said with a grin.

Almost reverently, Guinevere set the SMG back in its case. He handed it to her.

"I'll keep it in _perfect_ condition, Mr. Orazio," she said with a serious expression.

Taken aback, Orazio didn't respond immediately. This was only the third time she'd ever addressed him like that. The first two times were during her first week at the agency. The silence stretched for a few uncomfortable moments.

"Well, there's no rush, Gwen. How about you take today to get used to the dorm again?" he said finally, standing up.

Guinevere gasped worriedly, in a way that only little girls can, "Oh no! What about Peeko? I-is he okay?"

"Don't worry, he's fine. I've been feeding him every day. I think he misses you, though. I _am_ pretty boring," Orazio said.

She finally smiled, if only a little.

* * *

Guinevere could see that the girl she shared the elevator with was in a sour mood, so she didn't interrupt the profane mutterings that Triela emitted. It was drizzling lightly as the two girls stepped outside, and the sun's rays were only just beginning to color the clouds on the eastern horizon. Triela's 'hate'-filled monologue continued unabated. They walked together until they reached the dorms, where Triela split off and headed to her own room with a quiet apology for her vulgar ranting. Guinevere felt sorry for Hillshire and Jean, who were the subjects of Triela's rant… but she felt sorrier for the blonde girl in sweats similar to her own who rushed by as she opened the door to her room. Rico was going to be Triela's sparring partner in a few minutes. 

As she closed the door, Guinevere took stock of her room. The bed, wardrobe, wooden chair and table were just as she had left them when she headed for Torino a few days before. Respectively: neatly made, closed, pushed in, and bare. Peeko's cage was empty, save for a full water bottle, full seed tray and fresh newspaper laid across its base. He was probably out on the roof. Additionally, there were three new pieces of furniture: a miniature desk with matching chair, and a bookshelf… all made of polished red wood, and sized perfectly to her tiny frame.

_Is this a reward or something?_

She couldn't recall doing anything worthy of a reward, though. Just a string of near failures followed by a bullet to her armored cranium.

_How _did_ that happen, anyway?_

Just thinking about it made her head hurt.

Setting the weapon case on her new bookshelf, Guinevere took out the Chang Feng and its tool kit. She moved to her new desk and began disassembling the gun from memory. It never occurred to her that she hadn't heard of a Chang Feng submachine gun before that morning.

* * *

Holstering her SWA standard-issue Beretta 92FS-C, Priscilla retrieved her empty magazines from the shelf and turned away from her firing lane. 

"Fancy meeting you here," Priscilla jumped back a step when Orazio spoke, only a few feet in front of her.

_How the hell does he sneak around with that leg, and in _dress shoes_, too!_

"I-uh… I do come here sometimes, you know. I'm not _just_ a pencil-pusher!" she said, realizing that she still had her earplugs in.

_Okay, maybe he's _not _that sneaky…_

There was a short, uncomfortable silence.

"What's with the James Bond look today, anyway?" Priscilla asked, to clear the air.

"Oh, this. I just got _debriefed_ by Jean and the Chief. I wanted to look my best while I was being reamed," Orazio replied sheepishly, "Turns out it was unnecessary. They were pretty understanding."

"Ah. So where's Gwen? I've never seen you down here alone before."

"Oh, I gave her the day to get used to the dorm again… and I need to work on my marksmanship. Got a new pistol," he replied, pulling a gun from inside his suit jacket.

"Huh. Looks a lot like mine…" she said, examining the star symbol on his pistol's grip.

"Yeah, it's kind of a Chinese 92F clone. Fires the same rounds as Gwen's new SMG, though."

"Well, have fun with that… I've gotta get back to my pencil-pushing," Priscilla said, heading for the exit.

"Alright. Have fun with that," Orazio said, echoing her absentmindedly as he watched her go.

Just as she was topping the stairs to exit the range building, Priscilla heard some rapid gunshots followed by Orazio laughing as he shouted:

"Hah! Awesome, there's no kick at all!"

* * *

Across the room, Giuseppe let out an irritated sigh. He seemed to be having a very bad day. The sound of a vigorously applied pencil eraser followed shortly after the sigh. 

"We have artificially enhanced children to do our killing for us; we have microphones smaller than my thumbnail to do our listening for us; we even have computers sort out recorded conversations for us. So _why_ in the _hell_ do we still make mission reports in hardcopy?!" Giuseppe groaned and lowered his head onto the desk.

"Amen, brother," Marco said, setting another small stack of papers on Orazio's desk. Papers fresh off of a _fax machine_, of all things.

Orazio added them to the bottom of his already sizable pile, and then examined his next exercise in ridiculous bureaucracy.

"Reason for expenditure of ammunition?!" Orazio read aloud, incredulously.

"Yeah, the rest of us decided that every time they send _that _form, we'd just put 'firing pin struck primer of each expended cartridge'. Maybe they'll get the point someday," Marco said, reading over his shoulder.

Walking between cubicles on her way out the door, Priscilla pantomimed shooting Orazio with her index finger.

"Bang!" she said with a devilish grin.

Orazio chuckled as he, once again, watched her go.

_Nice walk, Priscilla. hell, nice everything… _

He sighed and closed his eyes as he turned back to his desk.

_'Hey, Priscilla, wanna come over to my apartment for dinner and breakfast?' Hah. Come off it, Casanova; you've got _no_ chance._

Orazio reluctantly opened his eyes. The damned paperwork was still there. He was hoping it had been carried off by pixies or something.

_Where's Gwen when I _really_ need her?_

"Is it always like this after a mission?" he asked, measuring the fifty-plus page stack between thumb and forefinger.

"God _dammit_!" Giuseppe shouted as he broke another pencil, "I'm goin' out for a smoke."

"Pretty much," Marco said with a shrug.


End file.
